


Little Words

by DawnsEternalLight



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman and Robin (Comics)
Genre: Cookies, Couches, Family Bonding, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Gen, Parenthood, and Damian worried he's hurt his dad, fluffy fluff fluff, the usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-26 07:39:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14996039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DawnsEternalLight/pseuds/DawnsEternalLight
Summary: Coffee, cookies, a comfy couch, and a late night chat between Damian and Bruce.





	Little Words

Bruce opened the cabinet and swore. They’d moved the coffee. Not Alfred, Alfred wouldn’t move it and not tell anyone. One of his children. Most likely as a prank against one of the others. It wasn’t the worst thing they’d done, but with a sprained ankle, aching back, and throbbing stab wound Bruce wasn’t in the mood to bother being in the kitchen, let alone hobble around it until he found the missing beans. He let the wood fall closed and shut the top of the coffee pot glaring at it for good measure. He didn’t need coffee, only wanted it, and was giving up in favor of a trip to the next closest soft surface to pass out. He was only waiting on a soft surface because he knew the earful he’d get from Alfred if he passed out right here and now wouldn’t be worth it...neither would the extra aches of sleeping on tile.  

He shuffled into the living room, the closest room with something both comfortable and large enough he could lay on, and eased himself on to the cushions. It was only after he’d sat down that he remembered his main goal of being in the kitchen, ice for his back. There was a dull throb in his lower back that flared up as he sat down. He’d been hoping to combat it with a nice bag of peas or maybe a steak. He groaned and let his head fall back against the leather. Maybe he’d work up the energy to hobble back into the kitchen in a few minutes. Maybe luck would give him an Alfred, up for a late night cup of sleepy time tea. Maybe he’d magically stop feeling the worst of the night all over his body.

He squeezed his eyes shut and pretended everything was fine. He drifted until the soft sound of socks padding on wood made him slit his eyes open. He caught sight of a figure hesitating at his side, and he grunted, waving a hand forward. They stepped into sight as he pushed himself up straight, holding back a groan.

“Damian?” Bruce said, examining his face.

There was none of the night’s earlier anger on it, no spark of fire ready to start demanding he be allowed back on a case he never should have known about. He was frowning, green eyes worried as he played with an ice pack, fingers squishing the blue beads inside.

Damian thrust the pack and a bottle of pain medication at him, lips pressed tight together, “You did not take these earlier.”

Bruce took the bottle and ice pack, wondering how Damian would have even caught onto the fact that Bruce needed either with the way he’d stomped his way upstairs, making sure every step was a booming reminder of his anger at his father on his way up. He took the pain pills dry then shifted, settling the ice pack in the too hot spot of his back and leaned against it, this time smiling as the cold burned through his t-shirt. Perfect.

When he looked back up Damian was gone, having scampered away his apology given. It was as much of an apology as Bruce could hope for, and given earlier than he’d expected. He’d thought Damian would stew until morning and either drop the whole thing or spend the rest of the day re-lighting the fight Bruce didn’t want to have. In this night of trouble he was happy to have at least a small victory.

His son returned a few minutes later, a tray of cookies balanced in one hand, and a mug of coffee in the other. Tucked into the crook of his arm was a glass of milk. Bruce let a tiny smile pull at the corner of his lips and leaned forward to take the plate and mug from his youngest.

He held them still as Damian placed himself on the couch beside him, glass cupped between his hands.

Damian nodded at the cookies, “Pennyworth designated them for after patrol, but I thought you may enjoy them more.”

The milk seemed to suggest Damian had been intending on enjoying them himself but couldn’t bring himself to do so after their fight. He had yelled at Bruce so he could not have the treat he’d been looking forward to. It was Damian’s way of punishing himself once he’d realized he’d made a mistake. It was mild compared to stories Dick had told him from Damian’s first year.

Bruce set the plate in the middle of the coffee table, “We will have to share. I shouldn’t finish a plate of cookies on my own.”

Damian waited for Bruce to take one before he reached out for one of his own, the glass balanced between his thighs. Bruce wanted to set it on the table, and settled for keeping an eye out for possible spills.

He took a bite followed by fresh coffee. Damian had to have practically followed him into the kitchen to have managed all this so fast. And Bruce had missed it. Missed his youngest hovering at the edge of his vision trying to find a way to help, to apologize. He wondered what brought on this moment of peace between them.  

Damian broke the cookie in half and considered it before pushing the two pieces back together. “I am sorry.” he said.

Bruce didn’t answer. The moment felt too fragile for words. For the words he’d find anyway. Damian leaned against him, head bumping his shoulder. Bruce thought he’d turn and burrow his face close, but he took a bite of one of the cookie halves instead. Considering his words, or the silence, maybe the flavor of the cookie.

Bruce finished his own, and sipped at his coffee. They sat there long enough that his arm was starting to get pins and needles, the ice pack at his back beginning to feel more soggy than chilling. Bruce didn’t move though, Damian hadn’t fallen asleep, nor had he reached for another cookie after he finished the first. He seemed lost in thought. Bruce wasn’t sure how to pull his son away from the thoughts that had consumed him. Wasn’t sure how to probe that mind for the secrets buried deep. Dick would know. He’d elbow him and say the perfect words with the perfect twist of a smile and excavate one from Damian himself.

It was times like this, when he couldn’t figure out a way to bridge the gap between them, that Bruce most regretted letting Damian return with Talia after he’d come to Gotham. If he’d only had more time with his youngest before he’d been thrown back in time. If he hadn't missed _another_ year of Damian’s life. If only he’d tried harder those first few brushes with his boy. Would any of those things have helped Damian feel as comfortable talking with him as he did with Dick? Or would they still have these strange half conversations, broken bonding between two souls too alike?

“Father?” Damian asked.

“Hmm?”

“Do you think I hate you?”

Bruce was tempted to answer that he’d told him as much only an hour or so earlier. Instead he shook his head, “Parents and their children fight, but that doesn’t mean one hates the other. You should ask Dick about some of our more colorful spats.” he added, trying to interject some light to the conversation. It didn’t work. Damian frowned, almost curling in on himself, his shoulder pulling away from Bruce’s arm, leaving a cold spot in its place.

“I was afraid…’ he trailed off, then wrapped his arms around his stomach, “I was afraid I made you think so. Not only with tonight, but--” he stopped again, arms tightening, “I am not good at remembering the important things or acting on them.”

Bruce wanted to say something to help Damian find the words he was looking for, but he wasn’t sure where his son was going. He reached over and plucked the still full glass of milk up and set it and his own mug on the table. Then he shifted his arm to wrap it around his youngest’s shoulders, hunched and curled, before tugging Damian into his side.

“I want you to know that I do not hate you.” Damian said, stiff even tugged close, stoic in his need to express himself, “All I wanted before I came was to know you. I have failed to respect those desires more often than not, but I wanted you to know.”

He did turn and burrow himself into Bruce’s side now, his arms wrapping tightly around his torso, gripping at his t-shirt, his face buried against his ribs. Vaguely Bruce noticed the lukewarm ice pack had been pushed closer to the corner of the couch and his hip.

He pulled Damian close, almost into his lap, and pressed a kiss into his son’s hair, “I’ve never thought you hated me.” he promised, then smiled, “Even when you’ve told me so.”

Damian stiffened and went to squirm away but Bruce’s grip was firm. “I’m teasing you, Damian. I’m afraid I’m not doing a very good job this time.”

Damian stopped trying to wiggle away from him and huffed, “I’m sorry.”

Bruce chuckled, “It’s okay. I’m sure Dick would have managed that better.”

Now Damian did sit up and scoot back as far as Bruce’s arm would let him. He frowned at him, “Do you believe I would not have been upset with Richard for that?”

Bruce opened his mouth to answer yes, but Damian’s face had fallen.

“Richard is not perfect, Father.” he said, his voice quiet, tiny. Smaller than it should be.

“Damian.”

“No. You both do this.” Damian said, ducking under his arm to scoot further away, “You both compare yourself to the other.” he was pouting, angry--hurt. Damian’s eyes were watery, “You are my father. You are the one mother told me stories about. Who I have always wanted to be like.”

Damian’s voice was firm, serious, painfully honest. His words cut more than Bruce cared to admit.

He had wrapped his arms around himself again, “Richard has been my partner and is my brother and he helped me feel more at home here than I could have imagined when you were gone. I love him, but he will not replace you.” He pressed his lips together, “Neither of you seem to realize that I love and need you both as you are.”

Bruce opened his arms, “I’m sorry.” he said

Damian eyed him then nodded, scooting back towards him. He let Bruce pull him into a tight hug. He squeezed his son tighter, ignoring the twinge in his arm as it was stretched. The hug wouldn’t hurt his stitches. 

“I’m sorry for making you feel like I’ve only been comparing myself to Dick. I just want what is best for you.” Bruce told him.

“You and Richard are.” Damian huffed, “Do not think I was pleased when you were gone.”

“Never.” Bruce said, “I would never think that.”

“Good.” Damian said, then pulled out of the hug enough to sit up on his knees and press a kiss to Bruce’s cheek.

He sat back down and handed Bruce his coffee and a second cookie. “Also, I am sorry for moving the coffee, Drake insulted Titus earlier today and I had to retaliate.”

Bruce chuckled, “Oh? And just what did he say to deserve inconveniencing the house?”

Damian answered, detailing out the story of a conflict happening too close to lunchtime for either party to be of sound mind and Titus’s unlucky part it in all. While he did, Bruce sipped his cooling coffee and enjoyed the company of his youngest son, chattering happily by his side.


End file.
